A Christmas Carol
by SignedSealedWritten
Summary: He drew a shaky breath. "You're not real." To show him how to love again, Aaron Hotchner will be visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve ...
1. Silent Reverie

_**A Christmas Carol **_

TV Prompt – Millennium: The Sound of Snow

Aaron Hotchner looked out over the roaring fire that his son had so badly wanted him to set. The warmth didn't hold any real warmth for the former unit chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He'd poured himself the glass of scotch but hadn't yet touched it, instead choosing to stare over the flames. It wasn't too far of a guess to say that if it weren't for his five year old son, he would not be celebrating the holiday this year.

He'd lived without her for years now. He'd lived alone for years after the divorce, but the house had never seemed colder than that night. Jack was the light. When he left the room, so did joy. When Jack left the room, Aaron's happiness vanished as well. His happiness around the young boy was not fake. Jack brought him happiness.

But when he left, so did that happiness.

He'd put his son to bed an hour ago and set the young boy's presents underneath the tree. His dark eyes looked over at that tree now, set in the corner of the room. That tree in itself was a miracle – again if not for his son, it would not have been there. Prentiss had helped set it up, insisting that he helped. For that, he was grateful – he could see the light in his son's eyes, and, for a moment, he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten how much had changed when Haley had died, how much had changed forever.

Because he'd refused to make a deal. Because he'd refused to back down.

And now, she was dead.

It was a white Christmas. If he listened hard, he could almost hear it. The snow outside was falling heavily enough that even Jack had expressed concern for Santa. He'd assured the child that Santa would be sure to drive very, very carefully, before tucking him in for the night and making him promise he'd sleep. He had a fascination with staying up to see Santa this year.

Above all, the fire roared.

There had been plenty of offers from his team members at the BAU to spend Christmas with them – Rossi had offered first, a quiet sort of offer, but he'd denied quickly. Hotch had claimed to want a quiet Christmas – and although Rossi had promised that was what it would be, he'd still declined. Maybe the truth of the matter was that he'd wanted to be alone – just him and his son, and that's what he'd gotten. Prentiss had offered, too – the same day she'd come over his apartment and helped to decorate the tree. It was easy to see how well she and Jack got along – and maybe, if circumstances were different, he would have accepted.

He didn't, though. This wasn't a Christmas he really wanted to celebrate. He celebrated it for Jack and for Jack alone, but none of the cheer of the season made it past the exterior. It was hard to have cheer, when hope was gone from his world.

Leaving the scotch on the table by the side of the chair, he stood, moving to the TV. Mindlessly, he turned it on. The images flashed across the screen, but they were nothing more than pixels to him, meaningless.

"Aaron."

He startled, realizing that he must have fallen asleep.

Because that was the only explanation for the light coming from the corner of the room.

_Author's Note:_

_This is largely based off of __A Christmas Carol__, and all of the BAU will play a part at some time. I hope that you'll enjoy this story – I've been thinking about writing this one for quite awhile. I can't say that it will be updated every day, but I hope that it will be updated quickly. I won't leave you hanging for long. Please review, I really would like to know what you think of this one. It means the world to me. _


	2. Explanation

**A Christmas Carol **

TV Prompt:  Judging Amy: Human Touch

He drew a shaky breath. "You're not real." The words stole his breath. In disbelief, his eyes went to where his drink still was. As he'd known it would be, it was still untouched.

"I'm as real as I need to be, Aaron." There was a soft glow emanating from around her, reminding him of one of the soft filters they used for cooking show cameras. Her hair, though, it was different - or, rather, it was the same. It was the same as he'd always remembered her; the same color as when they'd first met.

"_Haley_." He said the name, disbelief still running thick in his voice. The stoic man ran a hand over his face, closing his eyes and reopening them, but there was no change. Haley Brooks was still standing in the corner of the room, glowing as if she were an angel. Maybe that was what this was. He couldn't say that he believed – he wasn't too sure, suddenly, what he believed. She took a step forward, and then another. The glowing light moved with her as she came towards him. "Haley." He felt the coldness in his arms, spreading quickly throughout his body despite the fire that roared. He realized that his back was pressed against the chair; the profiler in him quickly assessed his fear.

Not fear of her, though – it was a fear of what this was.

She'd moved at a human speed and was before him, one glowing hand reaching out. He didn't know what compelled him to do it, but he reached his hand out towards her. When their fingers met, that was the moment he was sure.

There was something _real_ about this.

Because, when their hands touched, there was something very human, very real, about that touch.

"You're here." He said, and realized that she'd allowed him to come to his own conclusion.

She smiled. "In a way, Aaron. I've been watching, over the past month." Something very much like relief went through his system – after all this time telling his son that his mother was always watching over him, smiling, proud of everything that he'd done, it was true. "I've noticed a few things over that time, Aaron."

He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. "Was I doing something wrong? With … with Jack?" He realized how quickly he'd turned unsure, afraid, and that he was talking to what he could only assume to be the ghost of his late wife. A ghost – or an angel.

"Oh, no, no – you've done so well with him."

His hands were shaking; he clasped them together. "I plan to … to keep my promise."

She touched his hair, and again, the touch was amazingly real. "I know that you do." She said. "I don't doubt that. This isn't about whether you will or won't keep your promise to Jack. This is about something else, Aaron."

He paused, waiting for her to continue.

"I told you that love was the most important thing."

"You did." He said, his throat closing and his chest aching. He was aware of the itch at the back of his eyes, but he swallowed the tears he wasn't going to let spill over. Subconsciously, he listened to the background, hoping they wouldn't wake Jack.

"He can't hear us." She said, as if she could read into his thoughts. He was glad, immensely glad, that his son could not hear them. Hearing this – it would only confuse the young boy. It was bittersweet.

"Good." He said on a sigh. "He misses you, but I think you know that already."

She smiled, gently. "I do."

"I miss you, too." He muttered.

"That's the reason I'm here, Aaron. I need to help you."

He shook his head. "I don't understand, Haley."

"I know, but you will." She promised.

She took a breath before continuing. "You're going to be visited by three ghosts, Aaron."

_Author's Note: _

_I really hope that you enjoyed this chapter – if you did, or even if you didn't, please review. I'm wondering if anyone knows what Haley is getting at. I guess we'll find out. And I've had a few questions asked if I already know who the three ghosts are going to be - yes, I do, and it will probably surprise you._

_Anyway, please review? It'd make my day. _


	3. Three Memories

**A Christmas Carol **

His breathing faltered. "You're not serious?" Goosebumps ran along his skin. He felt cold, chilled. "That's … Haley, that's impossible." He realized the irony of that, telling her that it was impossible when she was standing clearly in front of him.

"They're not really ghosts." She said, sitting by the fire and crossing her ankles. The glow of the flame was nothing compared to the glow she emitted. "The three that I'm sending you are memories, Aaron. They are memories themselves and bringers of memories."

His voice stuck when he spoke. "Of the past, present, and future?" He asked, but it wasn't truly a question. "As in the story." A Christmas Carol – it had been his favorite Christmas story when he was young.

"Yes." She said simply. "They'll come tonight."

He had to ask. "Jack?" Aaron Hotchner's voice cracked audibly.

Haley's angel smiled gently, a smile that meant she didn't want to hurt him. "He'll be fine. He can't see me." The words left unspoken – that she could see him – hung in the air. "Give me this time to say goodbye to our son." He hadn't thought an angel could sound so sad.

"Haley-" His throat was tight and speaking was painful.

"Aaron, don't do this. It's okay. I'm okay. I just need to say goodbye, for me."

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, sounding broken.

She said something that sounded to him like 'why I'm here' and turned, towards the fire. Hotch found himself wondering what happened when an angel cried. Did mountains shift, ice caps melt, rain pour down from the heavens? All of them seemed likely, but none of them seemed like enough. A moment later, she turned back, and her eyes were dry. "Go to sleep, Aaron. You'll wake when its time."

He shook his head. "I won't leave."

"That's not how it works." Her voice was not unkind. "I can't … _stay_. The most I can do is watch over Jack once you're gone." Another thought left unspoken – _one last time_ – hung in the air, almost as if she had spoken it.

"Please." He begged, standing, taking a step towards her.

And he got his answer. Angels cried as humans did, only more heartbreakingly. More beautifully.

He stopped, unable to find the way to make his legs move forward. "Haley, please. Don't do this. Stay." His voice was cracked, broken, and he was crying tears he hadn't cried since her funeral – tears he hadn't cried, tears his son couldn't hear at the moment. Maybe that was why he finally cried them, in front of her.

"This isn't your fault." She assured him, whispering.

"Yes. It is." It wasn't a question. He was sure of that.

"Let them show you."

And she was gone.

--

_Author's Note: _

_I know that this is an incredibly short chapter, but it was impossible to make longer without losing what I _hope_ is the intended effect. I know that this chapter was incredibly difficult for me to write, because of the emotions involved in writing it. I hope that those emotions came across … and if you're sad 'cause this chapter is short, know this: you'll find out who the first ghost is in the next chapter. I don't know what your reaction will be … but I hope you'll like it. There's only one person out there who's guessed one of the ghosts (and almost all of you have tried) but I haven't told that person. Because I'm evil. _

_If I could ask one thing, it's for you to review. I'd really like feedback on this one. _


	4. The First

**A Christmas Carol **

He sat there, unmoving, for a very long time – as if the smallest disturbance of the air around him would end any small chance of her returning. He'd thought, that, maybe, he would finally be able to go a day without feeling that pain he'd felt seconds after her death, a pain the kind of which he hadn't felt since. But what had just occurred – it had brought all that pain right back to the surface, and he couldn't fight it off.

He'd been in pain before – it came with the territory of being an FBI agent – but although the pain indeed manifested itself physically, it was something altogether different.

When he finally did move, it was slowly. His body hurt with the grief that had crashed over him. It hadn't been her intention, he knew that, but it had happened all the same. The fire was almost out; he moved from it slowly and towards his bedroom. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay in that chair and wait for her to come back.

But he didn't, because she'd asked him to go to sleep.

His room was dark, but he didn't have it in him to turn on the lights. He found the end of the bed by memory and sat, resting his head between his hands, shoulders hunched forward.

She'd been the absolute light of his life for so many years. Now that she was gone – he didn't exactly know what to do without her. In truth, she'd been gone from his life for a number of years, but this was utterly different. She was gone.

He wiped underneath his eye with the heel of his hand and lay backwards, not bothering with the sheets. There was nothing in him to bother to care about that. He barely felt the cold, anyway – he hadn't bothered to change.

He didn't expect to fall asleep, but when he did, he was riddled with nightmares. The worst ones weren't of Haley.

The worst included Jack, too. Because, sometimes, he didn't get there in time.

In all of them, Jack knew.

His mother's death was his father's fault.

And no matter how hard he tried, she always died. He could never change that, not even in his sleep.

--

"Jeez, Hotch, you ever heard of lights? Your whole house is pitch black."

His mind was fogged. "It's nighttime." He muttered, unable to place the woman's voice, or why she was here.

And then he remembered, and bolted upright.

"No need for the springboard reaction. Get a grip, chico."

He couldn't place her just yet, couldn't see as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. "I…"

He heard a sigh. "You're ridiculous, you know that?" He recognized the voice, but couldn't place it. "Hold on. Close your eyes, I'm turning on the light."

The light came on, and he instantly shielded his eyes. Withdrawing his hand, he saw her for the first time in four years. She looked exactly the same, the same as when he'd first met her. Her hair was dark, long, and her dark eyes were looking at him in a quite quizzical manner.

"Are you … dead?"

"Do I _look_ dead to you?"

He shook his head. "You're…"

"Dead? No. In the flesh? Not quite. Here? Very much so. I'm a memory, Hotch. A walking, talking one."

"Elle." He said her name. "I didn't …"

"Expect me?" She smiled. "No worries. You expected someone not alive. But you're stuck with me."

She didn't glow, as Haley had. She wasn't an angel, after all. She was a memory. "I'm not sure I can do this."

"Yes, you can. Come on, Hotch." She held out her hand kindly. "Trust me."

"You know … what happened?"

She nodded. "She was the one who sent me. I'm so sorry, Hotch."

"Then you can understand why this is … difficult for me, Elle."

"I'm going to make this as easy as possible."

Tentatively, he took her hand. It was warm, familiar: as if it were a memory.

"Which one are you?" He asked as she led him to the window.

"The past." She answered, opening the window. "Fitting, huh? I've never quite been able to look past my won past. Got me fired, once." She winked. "Maybe we both need this."

"Elle, I-"

But his breath was stolen as they vanished together out of the window.

**TBC**

_Author's Note: _

_I hope you don't hate me for choosing her. I have my reasons. Please keep reading, even if you hate Elle. I promise there's a lot of interesting stuff coming up with his past, and Elle's only a small part of being there. _

_And, though this seems a lot Haley/Hotch, I __**promise**__it's Hotch/Prentiss. Wait for it. _

_Anyone seen the commercials for Alvin and the Chipmunks? MGG plays Simon. _

_The ghosts __**are**__ memories, of Hotch's, but they act as if they have a mind of their own. Haley sent each of them, and she wasn't just a memory. Whether you believe she's a ghost or an angel … that's your choice. :)_


	5. The Past

**A Christmas Carol **

He expected the air to be cold, but it wasn't. It wasn't warm, either – it was merely there, around him, existent. He slowly began to notice the world around him. He was above the rooftops, but he wasn't flying, not truly. It was a strange sort of movement, floating, gliding, along through thin air. There were people below them – a man shoveled his driveway in the darkness and a woman let the dog out into the backyard.

Time moved faster, strangely, and as suddenly as he realized this, they were on the ground again. Hotch stumbled forward before finally catching his balance. There was now falling overhead, dancing and swirling, and the streets were utterly deserted .

"Elle?" He shoved his hands into his pocket, finally feeling the cold. Snow began to dust his shoulders.

"Behind you, Hotch."

He turned and saw her, walking up behind him, and felt relieved: without her, he'd be lost. "I know these streets." He murmured, and she nodded. "I was born here." He furrowed his brow, looking ahead. "Where do we go?"

"I'm not the leader in this." She tilted her head forward, towards one of the houses."Go on." Thoughtfully, she added, "They can't see us."

The house was a ranch, brown in color. There was a chimney, but no smoke rose from it, and there was only one light on in the house: the light came from a window by the side.

The window belonged to young Aaron Hotchner's childhood bedroom.

It was his home, from when he was a child.

His breath caught in his throat. A lot of his life had taken place in the short years he'd lived here. "Do I go in, Elle?" She didn't answer him, and, unwillingly, he began forward, finding himself just inside the doors of the home.

The house was dark. "I was five." He murmured, walking haltingly through the familiar halls. "This was the Christmas I was five." He could tell from the singular light coming from his bedroom. "I can't do this."

"You can." She said again, putting her hand on his back. Taking a shaky breath, he moved forward, through the halls.

To his mother.

He hadn't seen her in years, and she looked now as she had many years ago: young, tired, worn out, and sad.

He could hardly stand it.

"I don't need to see this." He murmured, closing his eyes as his mother lifted the glass to her lips. "Elle-" He took a shuddering breath. "I already know what happens here."

"This was the start." She said for him, and he nodded wearily.

"He didn't come home this Christmas. I waited up, for hours. Dad never showed. Passed out drunk in some bar." His breathing shuddered. "Of course, I didn't know that for years."

"Hotch."

"Because his sister had died in a car accident earlier that year and he could never move on." He continued. "Took up smoking, too. It killed him eventually.' His eyes were still closed, his back was to Elle. "Took up some other things as well." His voice was bitter. "He never really understood what being a Dad was about."

Her hand was on his shoulder. "Hotch, you don't have to stay here any longer."

He opened his eyes s the glass crashed to the ground and the scene changed.

--

They were in the same house as before, but everything had changed. It did not look as if life, as if happiness, had touched these halls in many years – only the cold, dark emotions of sadness and rage.

He didn't need prompting. "I was ten." He spoke, unmoving. His eyes were almost empty – drawn inside himself, as he must have done so long ago. "Sean was one." He did move then, towards the bedrooms. "Things were different this year, Elle."

Sounds became apparent, sounds he'd rather wished he wasn't hearing. Sounds he'd never thought he'd have to hear again.

Fighting. Vicious, brutal fighting.

His mother and father.

Because things had never been the same once Aunt Beth had died in that accident.

"This was never something Sean should have heard. He grew up rebellious. I couldn't stop that." He said, stopping at the closed doorway of the bedroom.

"It wasn't something you needed either." Elle reminded him gently with a hand on his arm.

"I dealt." He answered, stepping through the closed door with nothing more than a thought. The room was familiar, but he wished it was not. Two young children were in it – one still young, the other mature beyond his ten years.

"It's okay, Sean." The dark haired ten year old lifted the blond baby in his arms. "Mom and Dad love each other still. I promise. Dad just gets mad sometimes."

Those lies got harder to believe each day.

"I made you a Christmas present, Sean. It's a coin tray. Shh, don't tell. I'm supposed to wait until we're all together." The older version of Hotch could almost hear the young boy's thoughts spoken aloud – that they might not _be_ all together this Christmas; that the fighting might last all through the day.

The older Hotch turned to Elle. "We made something every year in school. Gave one to my Dad the year before."

Elle waited for him to continue.

"He was drunk. Threw it at me. He missed, but it shattered."

She touched his back. "That was wrong of him. You and I both know that."

He shook his head. "We're done here, Elle."

There was simply nothing left to see.

_Author's Note: _

_I wrote a good part of this in the pitch darkness. At my brother's concert. _

_Anyway, each part – past, present, future – will take place in about three parts each. About. So we've got a lot to see here, folks. Poor Hotch. _

_By the way … you're all awesome to the extreme. _


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note:

I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long. I'm hoping that there are still people out there who're reading – let me know if you're reading through a review, and tell me what you thought? I've got plenty that I want to do with this story, so if there are people still reading it, I'll be updating it! If you still want to read, let me know, and tell me what you think!

Also, here's a warning: there are mentions of child abuse in this chapter. Nothing graphic, but I just thought that I'd give you the warning.

**A Christmas Carol**

He opened his eyes when he felt the scene change around him. It was the same house from the previous two scenes, but something was different. There were lights this time, but though the scene was physically brighter, it felt cold, even colder than the prior scenes. There was something missing from this house: something missing for many years now.

"I don't know how old I was here." Hotch spoke aloud. "This could be so many Christmases."

He was standing near the bedroom door; it was open but nobody was inside. He turned from it, moving through cold hallways to where the unhappy family argued, there that sound became apparent.

"You're always home late, always drunk, and it's Christmas for God's sake, Sam!" His mother yelled at his father, who tok a step towards the dark haired woman. His eyes were menacing, his hand raised.

"You won't tell me what to do, Maria."

"It's Christmas! Hell, I don't know why that should matter, you've never cared before!" His mother's words earned her a cold, hard slap across the face.

A young Aaron Hotchner stood slightly away from his parents. He was older than they'd seen him yet. Sean clung to the leg of Aaron's pants, fear running through his eyes. His face was wet. "Sean, you need to go inside." Aaron said, and Sean shook his head against Aaron's leg. "Yes, Sean. Go back and I'll be in soon, okay?" He said to the boy, giving him a small shove from behind. The three year old finally turned and scampered back towards the room that the two shared.

The older Hotch turned, taking several steps towards the direction Sean had run in, looking back towards the memory of Elle. "I was twelve." He seemed caught between going and staying, and leaned against the molding of the door. "I tried to stop him, Elle, I tried. And he turned to me instead." The dark haired profiler closed his eyes, sinking against the floor. In the center off the kitchen, the events that he described began to take place – young Aaron stepped in between his parents. "The only good thing I did that year. He stopped beating her for a moment. And Sean never remembered it."

She bent down in front of him, kneeling. "Hotch, you can't hold yourself responsible for this."

"I did." He said. "And I'm glad I did. Sean doesn't remember this. He remembers the few good Christmases we had. If I got a few scars because of it, I could deal."

She squeezed his hand. "It wasn't fair to you. I hope you know that. You were forced to grow up too fast."

"Sean got a good life because of it." Hotch said with an air of finality. He still hadn't opened his eyes. "I know what happened here. I don't need to see it again."

--

When the scene changed again, they were not in the same house. The rooms were smaller than those of the previous house. The kitchen where they stood was a mess – there were dishes that hadn't been put away and the sink was full of dirty silverware. There were several books on the floor – picture books for a six year old – and notebooks were scattered along the kitchen table, along with several pens and pencils.

The living room was even worse. Several empty bottles of soda sat by a threadbare couch. There was an empty box of pizza on a wooden coffee table. The remote to a small TV sat next to it, untouched. The TV was on, blaring some news channel that not a soul in the house was listening to.

And, in the center of the threadbare couch, Samuel Hotchner sat.


End file.
